Chapter 26
ESME
We emerge back in Dayn's library, his countless bookshelves materializing around us. After the night we've had so far, this quiet sanctuary of books feels almost surreal.
Dayn moves immediately to a towering shelf on the eastern wall, running his fingers along the spines. He selects several thick tomes and carries them to the large desk, where he begins flipping through pages.
“So,” I say, settling into a chair across from him, “we have your grandfather's scale and my sad little bird. What’s next?”
He doesn't look up, his eyes scanning text written in a language I can't decipher. “We need a third element to complete the triangulation. The first two establish our baselines—our individual resonances—but we need something to bridge them. A conductor.”
“A conductor,” I repeat. “Like what?”
“A living catalyst,” he says, turning another page. “Someone who can anchor the ritual and guide the energies between us.”
I lean forward. “And who might that be? Another dragon? Another darkblood?”
Dayn finally looks up, his amber eyes meeting mine with an expression that seems to tell me I'm not going to like the answer.
“We need the oldest living witch,” he says simply. “Salome.”
I blink at him. “Huh?”
“Salome,” he repeats, as if that clarifies everything.
“She's ancient. Predates the Blood Wars, the mage schism, all of it. She never took sides—not with clearbloods, not with darkbloods. She simply... bound herself with bone-deep preservation runes and removed herself from the conflict. Disappeared.”
I stare at him, feeling that familiar mixture of exasperation and disbelief that seems to be my default setting around him. “Of course. The oldest living witch. Who just happens to be named Salome. Biblical old, I'm guessing?”
His mouth quirks slightly. “Something like that.”
“And let me guess, she lives in some impossibly remote location and hates visitors?”
“I wouldn't know,” Dayn says, turning another page. “No one's found her in centuries.”
“Then how do you even know she’s still alive?”
He glances up at me. “We’re hoping she is.”
I lean back in my chair. “Great. So we need a mythical hermit witch no one's seen since the Middle Ages.”
Dayn closes the book and reaches for another.
“The problem is, indeed, pinpointing her location.
She's probably masked her presence from conventional tracking methods.” His hand pauses on the pages.
“My mother knew things about her. I believe she even visited her once, but she never shared her location with anyone, not even me. It was a gesture of respect for her, I believe.”
I watch as he moves to another shelf, his hands running slowly over a line of older, more fragile-looking volumes.
“But there has to be something here,” he mutters. “Some hint, some reference...”
As I watch him search, an idea suddenly forms—possibly difficult, but potentially our only option. I've seen it done before, though never attempted it myself. The technique is advanced, frowned upon by many darkbloods for its unpredictability. But right now, my life is nothing if not unpredictable.
“Dayn,” I say slowly, “I might have a way.”
He looks at me, his brow slightly furrowed. “What?”
“Your mother's spirit,” I say. “I could try to reach her.”
His entire body goes still. Even the faint rustle of the page between his fingers stops.
“My mother,” he repeats, and it’s not a question. Just the words, careful and quiet, like something fragile.
I nod.
“Strong spirits—especially those with unfinished business, which it sounds like your mother had—often linger in this world instead of passing on. I’ve never attempted an ‘inter-species’ summoning before, but with your help, and…
”—my gaze flicks to the gold-plated dragon scale he’s set on the table—“a few ingredients we already have, I think I might be able to pull it off.”
For a moment he says nothing. His jaw tightens, and something unreadable moves behind his eyes—hope, maybe. Or the fear of it.
Slowly, Dayn sets down the scroll he's holding. “For this, you’d need some of my blood, and something personal of hers, correct?”
I nod. “And candles. All of which we have.”
He glances at the gold-plated scale. The movement is small, but it pulls something tighter across his expression. His gaze lingers on it a moment longer than necessary.
Finally he exhales, his shoulders settling.
“Alright,” he says quietly. “Let’s try.”
We clear a space in the center of the library.
I move methodically, setting out the items we need in a circular pattern.
The library feels somehow different now—the air thicker, as if anticipating what we're about to attempt.
A darkblood summoning the spirit of a dragon.
I'm not even sure if the standard rules apply.
The dragon spirits we saw earlier came to me willingly; there was no move on my part.
“I'll need more candles,” I say, glancing around.
Dayn returns with a box of slender white tapers. I arrange them at cardinal points around our makeshift circle, then place the dragon scale at the center.
“Now your blood,” I say, looking up at him.
His eyes meet mine across the circle, and my heartbeat picks up despite myself. Just the thought of his dark, rich blood wakes that familiar, dangerous hunger in me. I wet my lips, trying to force my focus back to the ritual instead of the taste already forming in my mind.
“Sure you can handle this?” he murmurs, one eyebrow lifting.
“Don’t give me that look,” I mutter back, “and I should be fine.”
The corner of his mouth tilts upward. “Perhaps one of these days, you should take another sip.”
“Dayn,” I warn. Don’t tempt me.
Without further delay, he slices his palm with a small dagger and lets the dark, gold-flecked blood pool there.
My throat tightens.
Every nerve in my body seems to pull taut as I force myself to stay still, to remember this is a ritual and not… something else.
I hold out a small bronze bowl.
Dayn watches my face for a brief moment—fully aware of the effect he’s having—before he slowly turns his hand. The blood gathers at his palm and spills into the bowl in a small stream.
“Sure I can trust you with that bowl?” he asks.
“Shush,” I mutter.
It takes every ounce of control I have to place the bowl in the center of the circle, next to the golden dragon scale. Slowly, I move back to my position, trying to ignore the intoxicating scent that somehow still reaches me even from here.
I take a deep breath. “Now… I need you to focus on her,” I say. “Think of her voice, her character, her scent, the way she moved. The more vivid your memory, the stronger the potential connection.”
Dayn lowers himself beside me and closes his eyes, his face settling into concentration.
I take a dagger to my own palm, slicing a small cut and drawing blood. Then I begin an incantation, my voice low and steady. As I speak, I feel the shadows in the room deepen, thicken, gathering at the edges of our circle like curious animals.
“Mater draconis, audite nos,” I whisper, improvising the address. “Your son calls to you. Blood calls to blood, scale to scale, fire to memory.”
The candles flicker, their flames stretching tall before shrinking to blue pinpoints. The temperature drops abruptly, and my breath comes out in a cloud of white vapor.
But nothing else happens.
I take a deep breath. Keep trying. Spirits are, ultimately, of the same nature... We all are, ultimately, of the same nature.
I push forward, going by instinct rather than a textbook. I reach for Dayn's hand, taking it in mine. His skin is burning hot against my palm, and I draw on that heat, channeling it through our bond and into the spell.
“I call upon the shadows that know no time, the spaces between breaths, the silence between heartbeats,” I continue, letting my magic rise and twine with his. “Bring forth she who gave life to the king without a throne. She who shaped flame and future. She who knew the ancient witch…”
The scale in the center of our circle begins to vibrate, the gold overlay catching the candlelight in rippling waves. Dayn's grip on my hand tightens, his pulse hammering against my fingers.
I strengthen my voice further. “Spirit who once wore flesh and flame… who walked the world beneath sun and storm… hear the place where you are remembered.”
A subtle vibration spreads outward through the stone floor beneath us. The bowl begins to tremble as well, the thin surface of Dayn’s blood shivering in tiny ripples.
Then I feel it—a presence, vast and ancient, pressing against my spiritual senses. The air seems to split, like a silent parting, curtains drawn back by invisible hands.
The faintest shimmer appears above the scale. It’s a distortion in the air at first, but slowly takes form.
She materializes like a painting being created stroke by stroke.
First, the outline of a tall, regal figure.
Then, details emerge: the curve of her cheekbones; hair the color of midnight, shot through with veins of gold; eyes like Dayn's, but deeper, ancient amber pools that seem to hold millennia within them.
She wears a long, emerald gown, its edges wavering as though the fabric can’t fully decide whether it belongs to this world or another. The air in the library tightens around her presence, the candle flames bowing slightly as if recognizing something older and far more powerful than themselves.
Dayn makes a sound beside me—not quite a word, not quite a breath. Just a small, broken noise that catches in his throat.
“Mother,” he whispers, the word barely audible.
The spirit's eyes find him, and her expression shifts from regal distance to something far softer, something intimate.
“Daynthazar,” she says.